


taking up a fraction of my mind

by gdgdbaby



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Boston University Terriers, Breathplay, College Hockey, M/M, Sexual Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-22 03:41:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11371854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: Charlie's not an idiot. He knows nobody acts the same with everyone all the time. It's just—sometimes it's hard to reconcile all the different parts of a person when some of the pieces feel so wildly out of sync. He's still trying to figure out how Matt fits together.





	taking up a fraction of my mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gigantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigantic/gifts).



> happy america day, gigantic! i hope you enjoy this super self-indulgent story about two soft bu boys :* for those unfamiliar, [here](https://c.o0bg.com/rf/image_1920w/Boston/2011-2020/2016/10/05/BostonGlobe.com/Sports/Images/151106_WALKER_BU-NU_hockey_11602xx.jpg)'s a good visual aid of charlie and matt.
> 
> a million thanks to m for looking this over for me! set during the 2015-2016 season, warning for some brief derogatory language. title from bad liar by selena gomez.

Charlie spends a lot of time the summer before freshman year in the weight room with the boys. In and of itself, that's nothing new—there are guys here that he knows from the program, that he's spotted for and played sewey with while working out at the Ice Cube in Ann Arbor. Halfway through the first day, he and Jordan get into another pissing contest about who can deadlift the most, like clockwork.

"You couldn't even do a pull-up two years ago, buddy," Jordan says, sweating through his shirt as a couple of the other guys stack more 25-pound plates on either side of his barbell. "Upper body strength is not your specialty."

Charlie nearly breaks his back lifting 350 to beat him, but it's worth it to see the look on Jordan's face. He has to pay for Charlie's lunch, too, which only sweetens the deal.

So it's easy to get into a rhythm. The whole point of training at BU over the summer is to take advantage of the crazy nice facility and get to know his teammates better. Charlie likes going out for all you can eat sushi with Diff and Fortch, walking through Allston and hitting up every place that will ignore the fact that they're clearly students, riding the green line all the way down to BC so they can bother Colin and Casey.

Some of the upperclassmen train in the city too, depending on their schedules. Several of them live here; they aren't around as much since they don't have to take classes, but Matt and Danny at least are always in and out, talking to the coaches, doing reps on the machines.

Charlie vaguely remembers meeting them briefly when he came to visit in high school, back when they were still freshmen. Matt's the captain now. They haven't had any on-ice sessions yet, but Quinny's spoken to Charlie in passing about systems, and he wants them on a pair.

"Gryzzy's a good dude," Fortch tells him in July. They're all in the locker room after a workout; Charlie's about to go wash up, a towel slung around his neck. "He taught me a lot last year."

Something about the way he says it makes Charlie pause, but he can't ask about it because a posse of seniors—including the dude in question—takes that opportunity to slide in with their duffel bags.

"Hey," Laner says, waving as he jogs by. Matt drops his stuff on the bench next to Charlie's and smiles at them. Charlie tries not to flush. He hopes his face doesn't make it obvious that they were just talking about him.

"We were just talking about you," Fortch says blithely, because he never has Charlie's back, God damn it.

"Oh?" Matt says. Luckily, he doesn't look like he minds much.

Charlie returns his smile. Matt's eyes fall to Charlie's bare arms, and he's suddenly intimately aware of how sticky he is from exercising, sweat making his skin glisten. He tamps down on the wave of self-consciousness and says, "Coach said something about playing us together."

"Oh, yeah! I'm excited," Matt offers, like it isn't Charlie who should be excited and flattered. He's trying to figure out how to respond with some type of chill when Matt pulls his shirt off.

Charlie inhales sharply when he sees the ugly purple mark spreading up from Matt's collarbone. He reaches out before he can really think about it, thumb brushing against the edge of the bruise, where it's starting to turn yellow, and Matt makes a soft noise. "Shit," Charlie says, dropping his hand awkwardly. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"

Danny passes by on his way back out the door, dressed in loose clothes, and saves him. "Hurry up, Matt," he says, "Stop showing off in front of the new kids and get changed."

Matt rolls his eyes and drags a dry-fit tee from his duffel bag over his head, hair sticking up wildly. "See you guys later," he says over his shoulder.

"I'm gonna go shower," Charlie says to no one in particular, and studiously avoids Fortch's raised eyebrows. "Pick a place for lunch, okay?"

 

 

In hindsight, that's the first time.

The second time happens at Danny's house.

He throws a pool party over Labor Day weekend. It's pretty standard as far as these things go—cheap beer flowing freely, a bunch of guys lounging on lawn chairs and beach towels, hot pavement, and skin burning underneath the sun despite the bottle of sunscreen on the table.

By mid-afternoon, most of the guys are close to drunk—at least halfway there. Diff's dozed off next to the diving board, and Connor's messing with his hair. Charlie goes back inside the house to grab another drink, and when he comes outside again, Matt's fallen into the pool by accident.

He'd had a thing with family earlier and hadn't gotten to Danny's until two. He's spluttering now, and when Doyle helps him out of the water, the half of his body that hit the water is already starting to turn an angry red.

"You lightweight," Mike's saying, voice full with laughter. "That was like, _maybe_ half a beer, Matty. The alcoholic equivalent of one wine cooler."

"Eat my whole ass, Moran," Matt says, which is just—wow, okay. Thinking about Matt being into that is a lot, so Charlie is going to not, for his own sanity. He sits down on a vacant lawn chair and sips slowly on his Sam Adams instead.

Matt shakes his hair out and rolls his shoulders back to inspect the damage. Charlie hears him hiss as he presses his fingers against his abdomen, up the side of his chest. A minute later, someone proposes a game of Marco Polo, and the moment passes.

Matt doesn't stop messing with the tender part of his skin, though. Charlie tries not to stare too much, but it's hard not to pay attention to what Matt's doing now that he’s noticed it once. Matt's ahead of him in line when they drop by Chipotle on the way back to campus after the party, and he keeps pushing at his own ribs every few minutes, through his shirt, like he's reminding himself what it feels like. He looks up when they're almost at the counter, catches Charlie's gaze with an easy smile. "Still hurt?" Charlie asks, because he can't think of anything else to say.

"Something like that," Matt says, shrugging, and turns back to order.

 

 

The season starts in New York, a Saturday game that they drop against Union. Charlie scores his first college goal ever off a feed from Nik to tie it up late in the third, but it's not enough. He's used to being the one rallying the troops after a demoralizing loss or a bad period, but he doesn't feel like it tonight on the bus ride home—he's just a freshman here, after all. It's not really his responsibility.

Halfway back to Boston, somewhere on the Pike as they roll by Springfield, Matt taps on Jordan's shoulder and asks to switch seats. "Hey," he says when Charlie pulls his headphones off and looks at him.

"Hi," Charlie says. He has to clear his throat a little. "What's up?"

Matt shakes his head. "Just wanted to say that you were good out there tonight," he says, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"Oh," Charlie says. "Thanks." And then: "It was that obvious?"

Matt leans back against the seat and folds his hands in his lap. "I mean—I remember being in your position, you know? Losing sucks, but it's just the beginning of the season, and you did good. We'll get there." He bumps their knees together. "I'm glad we're partners."

Something warm flutters in Charlie's stomach, and he feels himself smiling back at Matt. "Yeah, me too."

 

 

By the end of the month, Charlie's gone out enough times with the rest of the team to know what they're all like after some drinks. Connor and Fortch somehow get even louder than they usually are. Jordan starts trying to arm-wrestle anyone within reach, which Charlie already knew about him, but they drink in public a lot more in Boston than they did in Ann Arbor, and Jordan's circle of domination expands to include a laundry list of random strangers. Brien sometimes randomly speaks French, unless JFK pulls him into a conversation about vintage alt rock, and then he just sits around nursing his glass and being emo about Kurt Cobain. Cloonan always manages to lose clothes between his fourth and fifth beer, and Hickey has zero rhythm at all levels of sobriety but tries to kill it on the dance floor anyway.

It's funny. People talk a lot about alcohol-induced personality changes, but Charlie's never really seen anything like it firsthand till Matt. They spend so much time together on and off the ice; Charlie always thinks he's gotten used to how calm and steady Matt is—as a teammate, captain, friend—and then they go to another party and it's all derailed again.

Charlie's not an idiot. He knows nobody acts the same with everyone all the time. It's just—sometimes it's hard to reconcile all the different parts of a person when some of the pieces feel so wildly out of sync. He's still trying to figure out how Matt fits together. He wants to know.

Halloween afternoon, they beat Denver in overtime at home and get out of the rink in time to join the evening's festivities. By nine, Charlie's already changed into his costume (Mario, to Jordan's Luigi) _and_ won an impromptu shotgunning contest at T's, so he's not exactly sober himself when Matt they run into the upperclassman contingent on Comm Ave.

"Mac!" Matt hollers, punching Charlie's shoulder. It's a little hard to hear him over the thrumming bass spilling out of a bar on the other side of the street, but Charlie can see the toothy grin spread across his face just fine. He's wearing a sheet around himself like a toga and a crown of leaves, the laziest costume ever. It also happens to provide Charlie with a nice view of the cluster of dark smudges dotted across the slope of Matt's neck. Those have to be hickeys, right? Or fingerprints, maybe? Shit. Matt bruises easily—Charlie already knows that from the dings and scrapes he's collected over the course of the season so far—but the placement means it's pretty unlikely that they're from hockey.

They start walking together as part of the bigger group, various conversations ebbing and flowing around them once they've gone down a block or two. Off to his right, Jordan's telling Chase about this girl in his econ class, and Charlie says, "Oh, word? Princess Daisy?" He's expecting the middle finger Jordan throws his way, but he laughs anyway.

At some point, Danny winds his way around to Matt's left, tosses an arm over his shoulders and pokes at the marks on Matt's neck. Matt yelps and swats at him, nose wrinkled, and some of what Charlie's feeling must show on his face, because Danny smiles and shakes his head.

"Don't worry, Chuck," Danny says. "He's into this stuff, you know."

"Um," Charlie says.

Matt squirms out from the hold and smacks the back of Danny's head. "Not from you, though," he says breezily. "I'm way out of your league."

"Bullshit," Danny says, rolling his eyes. "I'm just not tall enough for your taste."

"Wow, a self-drag," Matt points out. "Height isn't really the issue, though. Maybe if you weren't such a weak-ass about spanking—" He laughs and ducks behind Charlie when Danny shoves him half-heartedly.

Charlie's not sure he's meant to be hearing this, but he's too buzzed to do much but keep walking. Every time he learns something new about Matt, he just has more questions. It's probably not healthy to be this pre-occupied. Matt's comfortable with him. That should be enough.

 

 

They have home and homes the next two weekends. Charlie picks up a couple of assists during the sweep of Northeastern, Matt and Danny scoring off his passes. It feels good to contribute, like he's finally settling into the swing of things. He likes that they can count on him, likes the clean burn in his thighs when he's joining the rush, likes it when Matt beams at him during their goal cellies.

The week leading up to the Providence series is weird, though, and it only makes sense once Charlie remembers how the national championship game in April went down. There's some unfinished business, here. Matt's—not tense, exactly, but he's hyper-focused during practice, channeling everything into their drills, constantly pushing himself to go harder. He's not alone: all the seniors are especially intense, and it's easy to get caught up in it. By Friday night, Charlie feels ready to fight someone, all the pent-up energy in his body just waiting for somewhere to go.

"You know you can't actually fight anyone, right?" Fortch tells him on the bus ride to the Dunk, amused. "NCAA regulations, bud."

"It's just a figure of speech," Charlie says, but the game starts out chippy and physical and stays that way. Charlie gets a minor for elbowing in the second, frustrated after an uncalled slew foot on Ahti.

Matt uses his stick to tap Charlie's glove when he gets out of the box. "Don't let them get to you," he says, sweat steaming up his visor, bangs hanging damp against his forehead. Charlie sighs, and Matt shakes his head. "Hey, listen to me. You're golden—just play the game."

Charlie's not on the ice five minutes later when Danny and JFK get into it with a forward on the other team, nor the ensuing penalty kill when Providence scores, which is probably for the best. He sits back heavily as the away arena explodes.

"I know you're from here, Coach, but God, I hate Providence," Laner says loudly, leaned over the bench.

Charlie can hear Coach snort behind him over the chanting of the student section. "I'm from Scranton, so you can continue hating Providence with a clear conscience," he says, thumping Laner's butt pads with his clipboard. "Come on, boys, let's get back to work."

It's hard not to get angry watching everyone get checked in the corners, especially when he and Matt get matching boarding calls for shit the other team has been doing all night. Coach screams at the refs from the bench before the 5-on-3, and Matt spends the two minutes talking to Charlie about what they're gonna do when they get out—something about the goalie's weak side—but he can't really concentrate, blood buzzing beneath his skin.

The boys manage to kill the penalty, and they hop right back into the game, trying to thread the puck through the neutral zone. They're coming up the middle when Walman slashes at Matt's legs right in front of him, and honest to God, Charlie was just trying to body him out of the way, not hit him in the head.

Intent doesn't matter, though. Charlie gets the automatic game misconduct, won't be playing tomorrow. He watches Ahti score the game-tying goal on the TV screen in the locker room and can barely muster up a smile about it.

Coach gives them a rousing pep talk from the front of the bus on the ride back to campus. Matt swaps seats with Fortch afterwards, hair dripping on the armrest between them. He cuts Charlie off with a wave of his hand when he opens his mouth to apologize. "I know you didn't do it on purpose," Matt says, and the knot in Charlie's chest loosens a little. Now that the adrenaline's worn off, he's starting to feel sore all over; maybe it'll be good to miss a game. Take a break, collect himself.

"I'm still sorry," Charlie says, exhaling. "I'll be better."

Matt smiles and pats his arm. "Don't beat yourself up about it," he says, and when he leans back, he thumbs idly at his collarbone beneath the material of his sweatshirt. Charlie wonders if Matt has new marks there, but knows better than to ask.

He does keep coming back to the thought, though. Days later, he totally checks out during the second half of his econ lecture because he's daydreaming about different scenarios where Matt could've come by all the bruises he collects, the ones that aren't from playing a contact sport. After class, he has to borrow Jordan's basically illegible notes to copy, which is enough incentive on its own to stop getting distracted.

 

 

The boys tie Providence at home on Saturday, and they split a series against Michigan the next weekend. Casey calls on Sunday night; the Eagles just handily beat ASU earlier in the afternoon, and he and Colin want to grab drinks at some bar in South End. "The gayborhood?" Charlie asks thoughtfully.

"You know there's fuck-all to do at BC, and I'm pretty sure we've exhausted the fine establishments in Allston several times over," Casey says. "C'mon, Mac, live a little. You scared or something?"

"Fuck you," Charlie says cheerfully, and then, "Wear something tight, Fitzy." Casey snorts and hangs up on him.

He does actually show up in a clubbing outfit, though, ripped skinny jeans and a meshy top and definitely at least a little bit of eyeliner. Colin's in a button-down and no makeup at all, but somehow Charlie still feels underdressed. He gives them both pointed looks, and Colin shrugs. "Case loves it when I wing-man for him."

"Look at his face, and then look at mine," Casey says, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Wow," Colin says, unamused. "This is the thanks I get?"

"I guess I can see how that works," Charlie says straight-faced, and Colin grabs his chest, betrayed. "Why am I here, then?"

"Muscle," Casey says without missing a beat. "You're my exit strategy in case I need to make a quick getaway."

"And here I was, thinking you just wanted the pleasure of my company," Charlie says. "You could've just said you wanted to pick up."

Casey has the decency to look somewhat apologetic. "First round's on me?" he offers.

"I'll drink to that," Colin says grimly, and lets Casey out of the booth to order at the counter.

As far as bars go, this one is pretty tasteful: dark furniture, colorful pop art on the walls, floors that aren't too sticky. It's not too crowded either, probably since it's a Sunday night, so they can hold normal conversations without having to yell at each other. After their second pitcher of Sam Adams, someone across the room sends Casey a drink, and he leaves them with a wink. Charlie tunes out Colin's chatter about the Patriots in favor of looking around at some of the other tables, the cute guy with glasses chatting with the bartender. It's not the first gay bar Charlie's ever been to, and it won't be the last, at least if his friendship with Casey continues in the same vein. While he's here, he can appreciate the view.

Charlie knows himself well enough to admit that his fascination with Matt isn't entirely platonic, but maybe it would be best to redirect his attention instead of waiting for the outside chance that Matt might actually be interested in anything more than friendship. He's Matt's rookie. They see each other every single day. Charlie doesn't want to mess with their easy camaraderie. If he hooks up with somebody else, he might stop thinking about Matt so much.

"Hey, Mac," Colin says, voice breaking through his thoughts. "Is it just me or does that guy in the corner look really familiar?"

Charlie squints toward where he's pointing. There's a tall dude half-visible beneath a swinging light and the bathroom sign. "The one with the baseball cap? No idea, but I can't see him very well."

"Not him, the guy he's talking to," Colin says, and it takes Charlie a moment to see the other person standing there but no time at all to recognize him.

He doesn't have time to say anything to Colin, because even as they're watching, the guy in the hat pushes Matt roughly against the wall. A wince crosses Matt's face. Charlie's moving before he can think about it, almost bowling a server over with his hustle.

"Yo," Charlie says when he reaches them, blood pounding through his ears. He knocks hat guy's arm away easily and pauses to glance at Matt, who looks ruffled but still okay, before turning back toward him. "What's going on over here?"

"Charlie," Matt says, at the same time the stranger snaps, "Who the fuck are you, his boyfriend?"

Charlie makes himself a bigger, shoulders tossed back, and positions himself in between them. "What's it to you if I am?"

The guy takes a step back, mouth twisting. "You know what, this isn't even worth it. Good luck with him. Maybe if he wasn't such a slut, he'd stop getting himself in this kind of shit."

Charlie manages to refrain from doing anything stupid, like starting a bar fight on a school night, but it's a close call. He feels Matt's hand close around his wrist, and the guy pushes past them toward the door.

Matt's eyes are huge when Charlie turns around to look at him. His face is pale, and the fingers around Charlie's wrist feel clammy. Charlie asks, "Are you alright?"

"Um—yeah, I'm fine. I'm sorry you had to see that. It's not what you think." He lowers his gaze, sheepish and embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand, and Charlie just—he likes Matt so much, and he doesn't want him to feel like he has anything to apologize for.

"How do you know what I think?" Charlie says quietly. He turns his hand in Matt's grip until he's holding onto Matt's fingers, thumb pushed against his palm.

Matt glances up again, eyes searching Charlie's face. He must find what he's looking for, because he gets up on his toes and presses his mouth against Charlie's, brief but deep, his tongue sliding past Charlie's lips to flirt with the roof of his mouth. Matt tastes like—whatever he was drinking, something sharp and smoky, and his mouth is warm.

The kiss is over in a moment, before Charlie's really processed it, and Matt untangles their hands as he steps away. "Thanks," he says with the ghost of a smile, and then he's gone.

When Charlie gets back to their table, Casey's staring morosely into a new pitcher of beer that he seems to be drinking straight out of. "Didn't work out?"

"He was a Giants fan," Casey mutters, taking another long swallow while Colin rolls his eyes over his shoulder. Charlie tries very hard not to laugh.

"What happened back there?" Colin asks, sounding bored enough that he probably didn't see much.

"Just said hi to a friend," he says. Fortunately, Colin accepts it. "Hey, sorry for ditching, but I think I'm gonna head out. Better luck next time, Case."

They wave as he shrugs his coat on and leaves. It's too cold to walk the three miles to campus, and he doesn't really want to be alone with his thoughts that long anyway, so he just gets an Uber to the dorm. Exhaustion hits him like a train after he washes up in the bathroom; Jordan's staying up, frantically writing an English paper due tomorrow, but Charlie still manages to pass out with the light on.

 

 

To Matt's credit, he doesn't wait around for Charlie to come to him. After lunch on Monday, he drops by the study lounge at Agganis during the freshmen's mandatory study hall and asks to talk in private. Charlie dutifully follows him out into the hall.

"Hi," Matt says, rocking back on his heels. He looks kind of faded in the light of day, hair mussed, dark smudges under his eyes, swallowed by his BU sweater. Unfortunately, Charlie still wants to kiss him again just as much. "I just wanted to explain—everything. You deserve that."

"Okay," Charlie says, swallowing around the sudden thickness in his throat. "I appreciate it."

Matt pauses for a minute, like he's trying to decide where to start. "I was pretty drunk," he begins, and Charlie's heart sinks a little. He's seen this movie before; he knows how it ends. _I was pretty drunk, and I didn't mean to do what I did. Sorry._ He doesn't even know why he got his hopes up.

"Seemed like it," Charlie says inanely.

Matt shifts on his feet, scratches the back of his head. "I didn't mean to leaving you hanging after I—you know, kissed you. I do a lot of impulsive things when I get like that. Not anything I wouldn't want to do sober, just—it's easier to just do stuff instead of overthinking every decision."

"Right," Charlie says, even though he's not sure he's following. "So you—you wanted to."

"Kiss you?" Matt's face goes pink, the flush spreading down his neck. "Yeah. Sorry. I get it, if it wasn't your thing."

"No," Charlie says hastily. He's definitely turning red too, ears burning. "I wanted you to. I liked it—I like you."

Matt smiles up at him. "That's convenient. I like you, too."

"Cool." _Cool?_ What the hell, that wasn't smooth at all. Charlie wishes he could take it back and say something better, but it's too late now. He didn't think he'd get to do this, hadn't let himself consider that this could happen. Matt's still smiling at him like he doesn't care, though, sincere as ever. That's something. Charlie clears his throat and tries to focus. He had another follow-up question, about—yes. "And the guy?"

Matt grimaces. "Ah, Craig."

"You knew him?"

"You could say that." Matt rubs his neck. "It's kind of a long story, but the last time I was at that bar I kind of stole the guy he was hitting on. He wasn't very happy about it." Charlie makes a thoughtful noise, and Matt raises his hands, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Look, it was an accident, I promise!"

"I didn't know you had such mad game," Charlie says, smirking, and enjoys the way Matt gets even pinker.

"My turn to ask something," Matt says, flustered, and Charlie lets it go. "What were you even doing there?"

"Oh," Charlie says. "You know Casey Fitzgerald, right?"

"Sure. Ryan's little brother?"

"I was hanging out with him and Colin White. Casey was trying to pick up but he decided being a Giants fan was a dealbreaker." Charlie rolls his eyes. "I guess I should just be glad our friendship isn't on rocky ground."

"Damn," Matt says, raising his brows. "I forgot you were a New York kid. I'm gonna have to rethink this whole thing." He bursts into laughter when he sees the expression on Charlie's face. "I'm just kidding!" He takes a step closer. Charlie's acutely aware that they're in the middle of the hall and someone could stumble upon them at any moment, but he meets Matt in the middle anyway, the kiss soft and sweet. It's perfect.

 

 

They fly to New York City for Red Hot Hockey early Friday morning after Thanksgiving. That first afternoon they spend on an outside rink in Central Park, running drills with a bunch of kids, coaching them through a couple of light scrimmages. Matt tweaked his knee in practice a couple days ago, so he isn't on the ice or playing against Cornell tomorrow, but he still flew down with them.

"I keep meaning to say that you look cute in glasses," he tells Charlie later, when they're on the way to dinner at some fancy restaurant. Matt reaches up to tap the rim of Charlie's lenses, grinning when Charlie blinks at him. "You should wear them more often."

"Sadly, they don't fit under our helmets," Charlie says, dry. Matt keeps looking at him for a minute, chewing on his lower lip. "What?"

"I'm trying to figure out a smooth way to tell you I switched hotel keycards with Jordan earlier," Matt says.

"Oh," Charlie says. His brain short-circuits for a couple of seconds, running through all the implications of sharing a room with Matt over the weekend. When he pulls himself back into the moment, Matt's beaming at him.

"Smooth enough?"

"Yeah," Charlie says, and lets Matt thread their fingers together in his lap.

The dinner menu ends up being pretty impressive, and walking around Times Square with the guys is fun, but Charlie spends most of the night wondering when they'll head back to the hotel. Now that he's allowed to be preoccupied with Matt, he can't help it. Matt comes up behind him when they're waiting in line for churros at a food truck, hand brushing against the small of his back, and Charlie jumps about a mile. "Relax," Matt says, sounding amused.

Charlie tries to, exhaling slowly and leaning into the warmth of Matt's palm. It kind of works.

Matt's suitcase is already in the right room when they finally return—he and Jordan must have swapped right when they got in this morning. Charlie stands in the entryway after the door swings shut and toes off his shoes, watches Matt do the same. Charlie's messed around with guys before, but this feels different. It's so intentional that Charlie's not sure how to proceed, afraid of doing something wrong.

He doesn't know how to be casual with Matt anymore. Even breathing seems loaded.

"Come here," Matt says, reaching out to slide a hand inside Charlie's nice suit jacket, cup his ribs. Charlie goes. The kiss starts out chaste and turns more desperate as Matt presses closer, his fingers fluttering at Charlie's neck, tongue gliding hot and wet against his.

Charlie's hands slide down to fit around Matt's hips. Matt makes an appreciative noise in the back of his throat when Charlie maneuvers them further into the room, toward the bed closest to the door. They break apart for a moment to shuck their clothes, and in the middle of unbuttoning his shirt, Charlie catches a glimpse of the black brace around Matt's leg before it joins the rest of his stuff on the floor. Shit. He'd almost forgotten.

Matt climbs backward onto the bed and beckons with his hand. He's not hard yet, but the light pink flush on his face has started spreading down his chest. It's cute—Matt's cute, with his wonky nose and toothy smiles and soft words. Charlie knew that already, but he still takes a minute to appreciate him anyway, letting his hands trail across Matt's shoulders and down the lattice of his ribs, mapping out the planes of his body.

Matt waits patiently for about half a minute, and then he tugs Charlie in again. Charlie tries not to put too much weight on Matt's bad side, but Matt must sense his hesitance, because he pulls away to look up at him a moment later. "You don't have to be this careful, you know," he says, eyebrows rising.

"What about your leg?" Charlie murmurs, glancing down.

Matt chuckles, craning his neck to kiss the tip of Charlie's nose. "As long as I'm not on my knees, it won't be a problem," he says, and of course Charlie starts imagining that. Hopefully when Matt's better, they'll get to try it. "Anyway," Matt continues, flushing darker. "I like it when it hurts. Sex, I mean—not being injured." He ducks, shaking his head, like he's embarrassed. It's comforting, knowing that Charlie isn't the only flustered one. "It's better when you can feel it the next day."

"Oh," Charlie croaks, throat clenching. It's one thing to idly assume something, and another entirely to receive confirmation that what you thought was actually true. "I—that makes sense." He's still not sure if he gets how Matt fits together, all the pieces that make up who he is, but he wants to learn now more than ever.

"We don't have to," Matt starts saying, but Charlie shakes his head.

"No, I'm—it's just a lot to process." Charlie bites his lip. "Definitely hot, though."

Matt smiles at him, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Charlie says. "So you're saying I should be rough with everything but your knee."

Matt laughs. "Something like that," he says. He drops another brief kiss on Charlie's mouth before rolling off the bed to rummage through his suitcase. He comes back with a string of condoms and a half-full bottle of lube and laughs again as Charlie exhales audibly. "You look like I'm about to make you use all of this at once," he says drily, flipping over onto his back again.

Charlie eyes him. "Are you?"

"I just like being prepared," Matt says, and then they're kissing again, wet and messy, Matt's teeth sinking into Charlie's lower lip. It's wild how quickly things can escalate when they're both working toward it. Feels like no time at all before Charlie's panting into Matt's mouth, crushing him into the mattress.

He can feel Matt's erection hot against his hip and reaches down blindly to tug at it. His hand's too dry, probably; Matt hisses through his teeth, but he doesn't tell Charlie to stop. Charlie pulls back to watch him, and Matt throws his head back, revealing the long column of his neck.

There's nothing there right now except the smooth, unbroken expanse of Matt's skin, but the purple mark on his collarbone from July flashes into Charlie's head, and then the line of bruises on Halloween night. Charlie fits his free hand in the same place before he overthink the decision, squeezes his fingers, and Matt says, "Fuck," the vowel drawn out long and loud. He makes a dismayed noise when Charlie relieves the pressure instinctively. "No, keep going," he gasps, arching his back into it. "Keep doing that."

 _So they_ were _finger marks that one time_ , Charlie thinks, a little dazed. Matt's whole body is pink at this point, and he groans when Charlie jerks him off faster, fingers twisting around the head of his dick, thumb smearing the precome beading at the tip.

"Okay, okay, stop," Matt sighs, and Charlie lets go of him. He's shaking a bit when he brushes their mouths together, the kiss sloppy and loose.

"What's wrong?" Charlie murmurs.

"Nothing," Matt says, sending him a lopsided smile. "Just—if you kept doing that, I would've come before you even had a chance to get your dick wet." Charlie makes a soft noise, and Matt looks up through his eyelashes, smile broadening. "You do wanna fuck me, right?"

"Um, of course," Charlie says, because he's never gonna be able to pretend he has any chill about this. Matt grabs the bottle of lube next to them and pours some out in his palm as Charlie rolls a condom on. He sucks in a quick breath when Matt slides his hand down and starts fingering himself open. Charlie's going to be dreaming about this moment for a while, which would be more embarrassing if Matt wasn't so gorgeous like this. Little sounds spill out of his mouth once he fits three fingers inside himself, spreading them out. He's still so hard, leaking against his stomach.

Charlie leans down to kiss the line of Matt's jaw, the smooth ridge of his cheek. He slicks himself up with one hand, hissing when pleasure curls in his stomach from just that brief contact. Matt spreads his legs wider as Charlie settles in between them, hooks one behind his back as Charlie lines himself up and starts pushing in.

"Ah, shit," Matt says, squirming. "Can you—?" He lifts his chin and guides one of Charlie's hands to his neck again. Matt doesn't have to ask twice; Charlie's always been a quick study. He braces his hand against the base of Matt's neck, palm pressed flat against his skin, and snaps his hips forward.

Matt gasps, a strangled sound. His nails dig into Charlie's forearm, mouth dropping open. Charlie reaches down to circle Matt's dick again. It's kind of difficult to get the rhythm exactly right, but after a few false starts he manages to make it work. Matt turns his face into the pillow beneath his head and groans as Charlie rolls his hips, buries himself deeper. His thighs squeeze around Charlie's hips, trying to keep him there, drag him closer.

Charlie can feel the heat building in his abdomen, pinpricks of pleasure rolling up his legs. He wants to see Matt come first, though, so he grits his teeth and picks up the pace, slams in roughly enough that their sticky skin makes filthy slapping noises as they come together. His hand on Matt's neck slips a little, thumb pushing deeper against the soft skin above his windpipe. Matt's mouth opens in a wordless shout, and he thrashes as he comes, spurting all over Charlie's knuckles. He clenches hard around Charlie, thighs squeezing around his hips. That's enough for Charlie to follow, driving in one last time before he collapses on top of Matt, sweaty and spent.

It takes him a while to come back into himself. When he does, Matt's sliding his fingers through his hair and murmuring into his ear, voice low and raspy: "Fuck, Charlie, that was so good. You're so good." Charlie tucks his face into Matt's neck and brushes his mouth against the underside of his chin, feeling warm all over. They're both sticky and gross, but he wants to stay here for a while.

Charlie rolls off him eventually, once he's recovered fine motor function in his limbs. Matt props himself up on an elbow. The places where Charlie's fingers pressed deepest have already turned a darker red than the rest of Matt's skin; Charlie has no doubt they'll be purple by tomorrow morning.

Matt follows his gaze and touches one of the marks, smiling a little. "It looks worse than it is," he says. Charlie reaches out, curious, and Matt shivers when he pushes against a bruise. It's gonna take a tremendous amount of self control to stop himself from doing that all the time, but Charlie thinks he's up for the challenge.

His fingers are still tacky with jizz and sweat, and he grimaces when he reaches down to slide the condom off his dick.

Matt pushes his toes against Charlie's leg, smile turning coy. "Wanna shower?" he asks.

Charlie grins back. "Absolutely," he says, and lets Matt lead him into the bathroom.

 

 

The next day, they beat Cornell. It's tied after overtime, which means the game is only worth a point in the standings, but Connor stands on his head during the shootout and steals them the win and the Kelley-Harkness Cup. Matt's waiting for them in the locker room after they've finished celebrating on the ice, and Charlie curls him into a hug.

"At least get washed up first," Matt complains, but he doesn't pull away. "Proud of you," he says, quieter.

Warmth spreads out in Charlie's chest, makes him feel giddy. When he finally lets Matt go, Charlie can see a tiny dark smudge peeking out past the collar of Matt's dress shirt. Charlie put that there. Matt wanted him to.

"I'll reward you later," Matt says, the look on his face a promise, and Charlie can't help smiling. There's so much hockey left to play, and Matt will be right there with him. He can't fucking wait.


End file.
